


Backdrifts

by redex (urvogel)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-13
Updated: 2007-08-13
Packaged: 2018-11-30 23:35:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11474013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urvogel/pseuds/redex
Summary: Non-DH Compliant. Harry Potter has never lived.





	Backdrifts

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on fanfiction.net.
> 
> Content Warning: Attempted Suicide, Blood

You realize, sitting on the curved wooden bench on Harry Potter's back deck, that wood holds the warmth of the sun, just like stone. It is just more subtle and you only feel it because you chose to wear linen pants today. It is too warm for wool, here on the seaside in summer.

The cottage is supposed to be a secret, and you do not have to wonder why. These Adirondack chairs are not placed for multiple people to use - just different views for the same person. They are all hand-made in the little shack of a shop next to the cottage. Inside this shack there are planes and sanders and nails and saws; there is a half-finished table and stiff, kitchen chairs.

He comes out carrying tea on another self-made tray, rough-hewn with a small circling design of vines along the handles. Silence floats where normal, meaningless words usually go. Tea passes between porcelain cups, biscuits, and shadows move along the ground as light clouds are propelled by a quick wind high in the sky. Down here, on the ground, it is only a gentle breeze.

The deck merges into a grassy lawn that drops so abruptly into a cliff that it looks as though there is no seam between land and sea and sky. You can see why he chose this place. There is a distant rumble of a motorway, but all else is peaceful. Birds chirp, a fishing eagle circles, a tiny hummingbird makes attempts on a sugar-water-filled feeder.

And yet, you can understand why he is still having problems. Even in the most idyllic surroundings, the inside stays the same.

You are here to do what all his well-meaning friends and family couldn't. Your body posture and overnight bag will indicate your intention to stay. You do not ask because this isn't a matter he has a choice in.

You sit and watch the bizarre bright green furred caterpillar inch along the rip of your saucer.

He only has two bedrooms to start out with, and that is fine. There is one bathroom for you to share, and the downstairs is a sitting room and a kitchen. He walks into the village every day for bread, milk, and each a muggle and wizarding newspaper. He throws out the front sections the moment he comes in the door and reads only the book reviews, the crossword puzzle, the comics with any interest. You fish the political sections out of the compost bin, sometimes covered in egg, when you are late getting up. He wakes at the moment of dawn every morning and sleeps early. There is no clock in the house, aside from the battered wristwatch on his night-table.

And then one morning you wake up and he's lying, bleeding, in the bath, eyes closed and a smile on his lips.

Terror grips your heart like a fist and you let it, like you have been consciously letting emotions take hold of you for years since the war ended. There is no one to see them any more, no one to take advantage of your fears and turn your nightmares into reality against your will. You're not a child any more, but you still need him.

They are knife wounds, but you've never been any good with healing. Towels press against the wounds, you charm them to apply pressure and then float them in the air, above his head. You have to look in the directory to find out how to get a muggle emergency call through and then you figure out the telephone in record time. The cord spirals out and leaves a trail as you drag it up the stairs to the bathroom so you can talk to the router and watch his pulse at the same time. A big, loud truck arrives with shockingly capable medics inside. You stand back and watch as they move over his body, putting it on a stretcher and carrying him down the stairs into the waiting emergency vehicle. You somehow end up shoved in behind with his favorite quilt in hand. You don't remember picking it up, but it is comforting to hold as they casually speed along.

You have come to expect more of muggles since the war has ended and you can't really complain about their treatment. He's awake by supper and smiling and thanking the orderly who brought up his meal. You have been watching him, dumbfounded, for hours now. How can he take it so calmly? How does he pretend like this, now, when before he has always been so obvious with all of his emotions? When did he turn into the kind of man who can smile and say he is fine and then turn around and try to kill himself?

You haven't told anyone else what he tried to do, and you tell him so. It makes his smile falter, and you think that perhaps it was shock or disappointment on his face. You tell him, in no uncertain terms, that he will get better and that he will never do this again. You tell him that you won't be leaving him until you are sure he will obey. He nods, and leans back on his pillows and you realize what has always been wrong. The problem that they hadn't known was there.

Harry Potter needs someone to tell him what to do.

You try a couple of experiments to make sure, and they all prove you right. He eases once he knows what you want of him and the bandages around his wrist seem less and less like shackles. Meanwhile, you can feel yourself laying down a routine, making this place your home. It is a scary feeling, like jumping off a cliff. It's exhilarating and you've never done anything like it ever before.

You say something jabbing, once, at a tender hole in his heart, and he flames up before you, ready to break your nose and pound you into the ground. It is glorious. Somewhere after your bruised lip and before a possible black eye he realizes what you have done and looks so stunned that you laugh at him. He drops you and turns away, but the next day he asks you if you need ice for your lip.

You send for some more clothing, your books, and chess set. He gets out a design book and asks you what type of chair you like the most. He then sets about making it, the piercing, grating noise of the saw, the steady beat of the hammer, the whine of the sander acting somewhat comforting, if deafening.

He has never bought a new broom since the old Firebolt was lost, so you take him up one day on yours. It took a long week of hints and insinuations for him to agree. He lights up the moment you kick off the ground and he's steering. You think that perhaps you made a horrible mistake as he goes into a dive _off_ the cliff towards the water. You scream as your heart gets sucked up into your throat and you love flying but you're not in control here as you squeeze him as tight as possible around the ribs.

He pulls up at the very last minute, trainers skimming the waves. The smells and sounds are uniquely those of the sea. He laughs, finally, he laughs and you hadn't even noticed it was gone until it was there again. Your heart is still beating too fast and your embarrassment is lost as he turns back to look at you with a huge smile on his face and something else glittering in his startlingly green eyes.

You kiss and now you don't loosen your hold but for an entirely different reason.

Despite your love of flying and of the change that has come over your charge you are nevertheless very glad to touch down on the soft grass behind the cottage.

Your chair is done in a few more days. You see him place it on the deck, trying out different positions before calling you out to try it. The back is straight, matching your posture, and the seat is curved to fit. The armrests spiral and there are little eyes painstakingly carved into where the snakes' heads should sit. Your feet are flat when you sit in it and the top of the back rests just at your shoulders. You wonder if he has measured you at some point when you hadn't noticed.

You thank him with a the warmest smile you can find, reaching up and caressing his cheek. He leans into it, kneeling down before you, eyes closing as the sun shines onto his face. His head rests on your knee until the sun goes down.

He is useless without someone to need him.

It's terrifying, the thought that if you turned and left right now he would break forever, lost and probably dead within the week. Back to where you started. You realize, now, that his title should never have been The Boy Who Lived. He has never lived, even now that he is free of all expectations. That it has fallen to you to bring this puppet back to life is a deep irony you doubt anyone but yourselves can see.

But it makes sense in a way that would have made a certain old bastard smile to see.

He invites you to his room. You go. He has put candles out and flowers in a vase. You like his attempts at atmosphere only because he took the energy and foresight to attempt. You might have wanted these kinds of things in a lover before, but you would have been fooling yourself. What you've wanted all along is just him.

So you push him down onto the bed and teach him everything life still has to offer.

He's more than willing, sliding and arching and touching and whispering like he has never done this before. You realize that perhaps he hasn't.

Neither of you get out of bed in the morning. By about noon his stomach growls and you wrestle about a bit before getting out of bed. About a week later you've vacated the guest bed and he starts talking about other people. Wondering what they're doing, when the marriages are going to be, how the Ministry is shaping up. He starts reading the newspaper cover to cover and listens to the wireless before going to bed. Finally, he mentions their names. The ones who died.

When you Floo his friends they are shocked and pleased that he wants to come visit for the memorial day, but it is obvious that they have gone on with their lives without him as you never could. He has realized that, now: that he can still be friends with someone without being their reason for existence.

They drop in front of the precarious-looking house, the trunk floating behind the broomstick hovering a few feet above the ground until they slide off. They were greeted by a rush of freckled red-heads none of whom so much as mentioned the reason why the two of you had been living together for the past few months. They seemed to forget that you are even there, passing around you as though you are just a fixture in the landscape, but you don't really mind. These days the prejudices have reversed and you have known worse at the hands of those who seek revenge for their loved ones. You see how he slides into his old personality so easily, but the angular changes stand stark against the former him for anyone to see.

He insists on sharing a bed with you until the lady of the household catches on, flushing and making herself look busy. Another one of those gestures that wasn't really necessary, but necessary all the same.

The national day of remembrance comes and goes, full of mournful faces and dark clothes. Everyone looks at you when you stand next to him, and you're not sure what they're thinking. You force it not to bother you and you tuck your arm under his, gloved fingers resting on the arm of his coat, letting the aura of your blood and upbringing wash over you. You protect him from the whispering crowds until you can find the pureblood mausoleums in a far corner and covered in graffiti. You pull out your wands at the same time and start scrubbing it off, banishing the garbage and erasing the paint. You had heard the story of his godfather a long time ago.

Your mother arrives a few hours later and you stand from the bench to hug her. She is looking old today, but regal. They shake hands as if they have never met, as if they have no idea who the other is. You look your mother in the eyes when you touch his hand familiarly and he is smiling only at you when he takes your fingers in his. Her eyes close once and then it is as though nothing has happened. She is your mother; she is all you have left.

Coffee chases away the fall cold and you discuss architecture and design as he confesses that he only likes making things because it gives his mind something to do other than think. You wonder what passed between the two of them on that battlefield that they could be so comfortable together now.

The fall passes into the winter and he has moved all his tools into the cellar of the old Black residence so that he can finish restoring the old mansion. You can't tell if he means to live here or sell it. One day he is making plans for Christmas and others he is wondering whether all the furniture needs to stay.

It is as though he has forgotten where you had been only a few months ago, kneeling on the tiled bathroom floor and pressing buttons on the phone frantically. But you know that everything has changed.

He hasn't forgotten, he has just moved on.


End file.
